Sew Me Back Together Again
by XenaDragon-xoxo
Summary: After the war, with his father in Azkaban and his mother on the run, Draco is lost, broken, and scarred by the mistakes he has made. In an effort to make things right, Draco participates in the rebuilding of Hogwarts, but he finds himself completely shunned. That is, until Harry Potter, Wizarding World's Golden Boy, shows up to save the day. Again. For the HD Cliche Fest on LJ.


Hi everyone! So here's the fic I wrote for another one of the fests I joined, the HD Cliche Fest on LJ. My cliche choices were Rebuilding Hogwarts, hurt/comfort, and Muggle Living. There's a lot of angst here too, but don't worry, the ending's happy. :P

**Warning(s):** EWE. Told in first person and in present tense. Mentions of past Harry/Ginny, Draco/Blaise and Draco/Pansy. Trigger warning: mentions of thoughts of suicide, none of which are followed through.

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.

**Notes:** This story is told entirely through Draco's POV.

**Summary:** After the war, with his father in Azkaban and his mother on the run, Draco is lost, broken, and scarred by the mistakes he has made. In an effort to make things right, Draco participates in the rebuilding of Hogwarts, but he finds himself completely shunned. That is, until Harry Potter, Wizarding World's Golden Boy, shows up to save the day. Again.

* * *

Sew Me Back Together Again

I'm not really good at expressing myself. Many times, I want to tell someone what I'm feeling, or how I am, but I don't really know how. So I just stay quiet.

It isn't that I don't have friends. I do. Or at least, I did, until they ran from the Ministry and left me behind at Hogwarts after the Battle. But I don't blame them, because even if they asked me, I wouldn't have gone with them. I was sick of running, and I still am now.

Anyway, the point is, as articulate and eloquent as many believe me to be, I'm not brilliant at speaking my mind, or putting my deepest thoughts and emotions into words. I used to try with Pansy, when we were in a relationship, but she wasn't exactly the best listener in the world. I tried with Blaise, too, in the middle of our brief fling, but he barely caught the gist of what I was going through. A few times, I attempted to talk to Mother and Father, but they were always either too impatient to wait for me to form a proper sentence, or they just didn't have the time to listen. I have a feeling they'll listen to me now, but I can't know for sure until Father's sentence in Azkaban is fully served and Mother comes back from wherever she's been hiding. She used to write to me every week, but she doesn't anymore, so I have no clue as to where she is, nor do I dare send her an owl for fear she's being watched.

Maybe I'm not good at talking about the things I feel inside because I myself don't fully understand them. It's as if I'm a puzzle that everyone must figure out, but they can't because I don't really know how the pieces fit into place. That's what it's like, for me. At least, that's what I'm assuming. I'm not completely certain that it makes sense.

Nowadays, it's difficult for me just to find someone to talk to. I've lost my interest in relationships, so I find no pleasure in visiting bars and trying to find someone sympathetic towards my problems – most of them would cower in fear upon realizing that I'm a Death Eater, anyway. It's not like I have much to boast about – majority of the Malfoy fortune has gone to repairing the damage my Father has done and financing miscellaneous fines, and even the Manor is under siege until they vacate it of Dark artefacts.

I live alone, never in a fixed place, spending what little money still belongs to me on inns, begging for jobs in nondescript areas where I won't be pounced on by Ministry officials. I wish there was something I could do to make up for all the wrong I've done, to atone for my sins, but it isn't that simple. People aren't so forgiving. I wouldn't be forgiving of my own self, if I was one of them.

To say I'm miserable would be a little over-dramatic, but to say that I'm sad would be an understatement, and to say that I'm depressed wouldn't even begin to cover it. Still, the word 'sad' seems to adequately describe most of what I'm experiencing now, although there's so much more I long to say. It's not just plain _sad_, it's a sadder form of sad. I think the saddest kind of sad is when the tears forming behind your eyes don't even have the capacity to escape them, and you feel...nothing. You don't hear or see, and even breathing is an effort. You simply can't do any of these things – it's impossible. So instead, you simply are – you don't quite exist, but you're there, somehow, and you stay.

Forget it. I'm just talking rubbish again. I should just stop attempting this whole talk-about-your-feelings thing. I'm clearly not very good at it.

* * *

I hate working in this bar. People come in and stare at the mark on my arm, then whisper among themselves and take their business elsewhere. My boss says I'm bad for his wages, and that if I don't find a way to cover myself up, he'll boot me out. Doesn't he realize how much I need this work? Doesn't he understand what it's like to be as desperate as I am?

I throw my dirty, wet rag down on the countertops in disgust – at the atmosphere, at the ragged bit of cloth, at the patrons, at myself. I can't keep a job for longer than a week. I would venture out into the Muggle world, but I'm too afraid to do so all by myself. It's stupid, but I'm a little afraid of them now, despite how powerless they are in comparison to most wizards. I don't even have a proper wand with me – the Ministry removed all Death Eaters' wands, believing that we would do something evil again, instead replacing them with these traced ones that barely work and are designed to send information to them about our whereabouts and what spells we've cast. I don't think many of the Ministry officials realize how we were forced to do majority of the things we did. Sure, there were those sadistic bastards who enjoyed it, but I wasn't one of them.

Someone leaves a newspaper behind, dropping it messily onto the part of the counter that I've just finished wiping, possibly simply wanting to make life more difficult for me. Somewhat angrily, I snatch it up, unfurling its now damp leaves. I'm about to chuck it out when the front page headline catches my eye. It reads: "Efforts To Rebuild Hogwarts Set In Motion".

I flatten the page out onto the wooden surface of the counter, re-reading the headline avidly. A picture of the ruins once known as the safest place in the Wizarding World flickers almost uncertainly next to it, as if it doesn't know whether it really wants to be there. A man is standing in the middle of the wreckage, surveying the damage, his hands grazing the occasional rock or stone with tenderness. Although only his back can be seen in the photo, I know who it is instantly. I've spent my years obsessing over and hating this man – it is impossible not to recognize Harry Potter.

I briefly skim through the details etched on the paper – it's mostly revolving around Potter, and I'm not really sure if I want to know the media's interpretation of his movements through the rubble. The writing isn't even that good – not many reporters are willing to cover the scene of the final battle between the Chosen One and the Dark Lord. Although it seems like the type of news journalists would swarm over, the fervent interviews with the Golden Boy regarding that day ended quickly when he revealed that it was my wand he had used to defeat the Dark Lord. It was a tiny bit of information that the Wizarding World couldn't handle – a Death Eater had played a part in ending the reign of terror.

I browse the middle, a little more interested, as the reporter begins to talk about Potter's action in taking in those without homes, setting them up at one of his residences, but the subject is merely breezed over, and goes straight back to gossip and rumours. I don't enjoy these types of articles, and I don't like many of the things said in this one. The last bit, however, catches my eye.

"The Battle of Hogwarts," states the article in its last paragraph, "was both a tragic ending and a hope-filled beginning. Although many lives were lost and the great school ruined, evil was vanquished once and for all. We will never hear or see of Lord Voldemort again, and perhaps the roughing up of a prestigious school was a heavy price to pay for that, but it was well worth it. That being said, efforts are being steadily made to rebuild Hogwarts, and any assistance that can be provided, whether in the form of donation or labour, would be duly appreciated. Potter has stated that anyone and everyone can participate in this voluntary work, and looks forward to seeing you there. Apparition wards have been taken down for easier access."

I put the paper down, frowning in slight thought. It's clear that I'm not really going to be wanted at Hogwarts, but it could be my chance to redeem myself – perhaps assisting in these efforts would help me to atone for my past, and all the wrong choices I made. Perhaps…yes. Perhaps I will be easier to accept, then.

But then again, I might be thinking too rashly. I won't be welcomed with open arms – I might even be hauled out of there before I can explain my purpose. The press would pick up on it, too, and have a field day. I can almost see the headlines centred around it now – "Death Eater Takes Part In Rebuilding Of Hogwarts". "Former Henchman Of The Dark Lord Attempts To Make Amends". "Malfoy Rebuilding Hogwarts – The Beginning Of Another Dark Plan?"

My mood considerably darker, I throw the paper aside. It's wishful thinking. Nothing I ever do will fully make up for what I've done, that much I know.

* * *

I lay awake late that night, unable to shut my eyes. My head is full of images of Potter, walking alone amongst the ruins of Hogwarts, and the opportunity I have to make amends. Will all the mockery, the distrust, be worth it? What if I mess up, and I'm laughed at, and ridiculed, and thrown in a cell?

But deep down, I know that won't happen – at least not to that extent. No one can lock me up for helping a good cause. I know that this is the only chance I have. I long to speak to someone about it, but there is no one for me to talk to. Even if there was, even if Mother was here, I know she wouldn't understand. She'd expect me to explain myself, even though we both know full well that I can't.

I don't shut my eyes at all – the impending threat of nightmares is my motivation to keep awake. My hands absentmindedly trace the Dark Mark, burned like a brand into my flesh, and the scars marking my chest from that nifty curse Potter used on me in sixth year. I don't really care much about them – the _Sectumsempra _marks, I mean – because they're only on the surface. Emotional scars…those are much deeper, much harder to patch up. But perhaps trying to right my wrongs would help to sew the fragments of my soul back together.

The thought of being healed from this state is probably what convinces me to get up as soon as the sun rises, drop a brief resignation letter off at the bar, and use my flimsy wand to Apparate to Hogwarts, not sure if I'm taking the first step towards my recovery or digging myself deeper into my own grave.

* * *

When I first walk in, I'm not sure what I'm expecting, but as soon as I receive my first glimpse of the grounds, I'm pretty sure this wasn't it. Everyone's talking and laughing as they reconstruct towers with complicated spells – a slow and tedious but rather fulfilling process – and they genuinely seem to be having a good time despite the fact that they're practically facing the after-effects of a battle that took so many lives.

As soon as I pass by them, though, the atmosphere alters dramatically. Faces turn to glance at me, lips falling silent, and glares are fixed on my being. "What's _he_ doing here?" someone asks, looking disgusted. "The nerve…"

"I wonder if I'd get in trouble for hexing him."

"Don't bother – scum like that isn't worth it."

I pointedly ignore them, and I search for the person supervising. I groan inwardly when I see that it's Granger who's ordering people around, under McGonagall's watchful gaze. I feel like shrinking in to myself. Maybe this isn't such a good idea after all. Perhaps if I leave now, no one will –

"Malfoy?" Granger's voice reaches me, and it sounds half-incredulous, half-suspicious. I can hear the judgement in her tone, and it wounds me to find it there. If even the elf-loving Muggleborn Gryffindor doesn't welcome my presence, my cause is a lost one.

"A moment, Miss Granger," McGonagall says, not unkindly, and I reluctantly turn to face the two intelligent women. "Mr Malfoy, what is your business here?"

"I was – I wanted to –" I can't form a proper sentence, and inwardly curse my unusual lack of eloquence. "I was hoping – that –"

"You would like to offer your assistance?" McGonagall finishes for me, and I nod fervently.

"Professor!" Granger exclaims indignantly.

"Prejudice is not a good practise, Miss Granger," McGonagall chides, and I feel a small swell – at least not everyone hates me.

"I'm not being prejudiced," she said politely. "It's just that, if anyone sees him here, it might reopen some old wounds, cause a ruckus..."

Her reasons are fake. She doesn't want me here – I can tell. Gryffindors are horrible liars, and Slytherins are brilliant ones. It's almost sad how bad she is at it.

"Then Mr Malfoy shall start work on decorating the inside of the completed Astronomy tower, where no one else has been assigned," McGonagall decides, and the tone of her voice clearly demands no arguments. "I've heard you've got quite the hand at art, Mr Malfoy. I certainly hope you will not disappoint."

I nod graciously, unsure how she found out about my love of art and my gift in carving and weaving with nothing but my wand. My style is more old-fashioned, often too much so to be appreciated by my peers, but it will suit Hogwarts well. As I turn to walk towards the newly built tower, which looks odd standing tall amongst the rubble, I overhear Granger muttering, "I'm not sure about this."

McGonagall replies, her voice soft and gentle, "You know it's what Mr Potter would want."

"Not all of us can be Harry," Granger says.

I try not to think about it too much as I approach the tower. It's only natural, I reason, that no one accepts me – they don't see _me_, they see what I represent. It's only natural. It isn't me they dislike, or who I am, it's the fact that I'm a member of a community they loathe.

Yeah. Perhaps if I tell myself that enough times, I'll start to believe it.

* * *

It's difficult, this work I'm doing. Creating stained glass windows is a lot more tedious with this stupid wand I'm using than I'd like, and the worst part is how alone I am in doing this. Anybody who is assigned to this tower demands to work somewhere else as soon as they see that I'm in it.

At least no one has been outwardly mean to me – I haven't been physically or verbally assaulted, and the few encounters I've had with people working here consist mainly of forcibly polite smiles before they run off to complain to Granger, who sides with them anyway. I'm being alienated, and my existence is ignored – as if pretending I'm not here will make me go away – but at least I haven't been hurt or pushed around.

Still, sometimes I feel that I'd much rather be shoved into a wall and Stunned than be looked right through. The fact that no one acknowledges my presence unless absolutely necessary makes me feel cold and empty, as if I'm not even here. Maybe I'm not. Who knows?

I work very slowly. By the end of the day, the large window is only half-done. McGonagall comes to look at it, gives me an approving nod, and says that she hopes to see me tomorrow.

"I don't know if I'll come back," I admit.

She smiles sadly, but does not urge me to return. Instead, she says, "Mr Potter will be here tomorrow. I thought you might like to know. Goodnight, Mr Malfoy."

As she walks away, I focus on the shabby inn I'm staying at, ready to Apparate. Even as I do, I'm aware of the fact that I probably will come back tomorrow, although I don't know why.

* * *

I think something must be wrong with my brain, for even having the notion to come back here after the treatment I received yesterday. If anything, it's even harder to deal with today than yesterday, and I'm getting frustrated with the fucking stained glass.

I toss my wand on the floor, wanting to stamp on it in frustration, although I know the Ministry would have my head if I did that. I glare at the glass, blaming it for all my problems in life. It's simply impossible to stop the paint from sliding off in all directions and looking choppy – I've had to redo this one section about five times.

"Need some help?"

I nearly jump a foot into the air. It's the first civilised voice I've heard all day, and the first to offer me assistance. I don't bother turning around – I'd recognise that voice anywhere. "No, thank you, Potter," I snap, annoyed that he's caught me in this state of unease. My voice sounds a little more hoarse than I'd like – it's the first time I've spoken all day.

A small laugh, then: "Stubborn as always. Come on, Malfoy, that poor glass is getting ruined."

I sigh, but pointedly do not reply. Admittedly, I do need someone's help, to charm the paint dry as soon as it hits. I've done it myself before hundreds of times, but that was with a wand that worked for me. Having said that, it's difficult for someone like me to swallow my pride and admit how much I require help.

Potter seems to know what I'm thinking, and he takes my refusal to respond to him as permission. "What do you need me to do?"

"This fucking paint won't stay where it's supposed to," I say quietly, trying not to get angry that I've been reduced to this level – I need the Golden Boy's help just to _dry paint_. From Slytherin Prince to nothing – how pathetic.

"I can fix that," Potter says confidently, and I don't even bother trying to hide my snort as we start work.

He _can_ fix it pretty well, though. Grudgingly, I note that he wouldn't be the saviour of the Wizarding World if he wasn't good with his wand.

That came out wrong.

Point is, I finish up the rest of the window pretty quickly with his help. It's a lot easier now that I only have to worry about the actual painting and not about where the paint might drip or fly off to.

"You're good at this," Potter notes.

I make a noncommittal sound in my throat as I add a few finishing touches and Potter flicks his wand twice dramatically, drying the paint as it appears. I take a step back, admiring my work.

"I didn't think it possible, but that actually looks better than the original," Potter compliments, and without realizing it, I feel a warm glow start to spread across my skin, originating from somewhere in my gut. I realise I haven't been praised in a long time. I turn to look at him properly for the first time since he interrupted my work. He looks the same as he always has – messy black hair flying in all directions but still not completely concealing the lightning-shaped scar beneath, bright emerald eyes half-laughing and framed by large, ridiculous-looking glasses, questionable fashion sense in his Muggle jeans and dark green jacket – but there's something different about him, a maturity that wasn't there before. Plus, there's some weird sort of embroidery running up his sleeves – it looks a little like little golden Snitches. He's also not exactly the skinny mass he was before. I can see the muscles rippling beneath his shirt as he stows his wand back inside the pocket of his jeans, then turns to look at me. "Great job, Malfoy," he says, and he turns to leave the tower.

I turn toward the banisters twirling around the new stairs, made of some boring, plain white marble, preparing to carve an intricate pattern into them. I feel a lot lighter, and for the rest of the day, I don't mind that no one says anything to me.

When the sun sets, I decide it's time for me to call it a day. I'm about to leave when I hear someone speaking outside.

"I don't know, Harry," someone says. "Can we trust him?"

"He's doing a brilliant job, Ron. Rebuilding is open to everyone, regardless of background," Potter replies.

The Weasel – typical of him to distrust me. He's never been one with a mind of his own, he simply goes with the crowd.

"So he's got a little talent," Weasley argues. "Many of the people here have similar gifts. You don't need him here for anything."

"Maybe he needs to be here," someone else adds, and I recognize Longbottom's voice. It's less unsure and a lot more confident than I remember it being.

"We aren't a support group," Weasley protests indignantly.

"If we shun a certain person just because of his past, we're no better than Voldemort was," Potter says.

I hear Granger speak. "We aren't a convict safe house," she says softly. "If more of them come in, it's going to send everyone here running."

More of _them_, she said. As if I'm a breed of Flobberworm, and not an individual.

"I'm not saying I want this entire site to be swarming with ex-Death Eaters!" Potter shouts, then he pauses, calming down. "I'm just saying that it probably took him a fat lot more courage to come here than any of us have ever had. And that's saying something."

"I agree with Harry," Longbottom says. "There's nothing wrong with Malfoy being here. I certainly don't mind, and I would work with him if I could – it's just that I won't be of much use in the Astronomy tower."

"But –" Weasley starts to protest.

"That's enough," Potter says, authority ringing clear in his voice. "We'll talk about this another time."

"Harry –" Weasley tries again.

"No, Ron, Harry's right," Granger says, and I recognise a tone of defeat in her voice. "We're tired, and in no condition to have a lengthy debate about something like this."

Silence, then the tell-tale sounds of Disapparition. My heart races as I take in what I've just heard. Is my presence jeopardising the rebuilding? The thought disturbs me, and I realise for the tenth time that week that I'm not wanted around – not by my employers, not by the public, not even by a group of people who need volunteers.

Sometimes I wonder why I even bother.

* * *

I don't show up at the rebuilding the next day, instead choosing to spend the day looking for an inn with cheaper rent. It isn't easy, and at the end of the day, I still haven't found one, so I sleep in a booth at a 24-hour bar. It's extremely uncomfortable, but I've become so accustomed to not having a soft bed to lie on that I barely notice. I'm exhausted, emotionally and physically.

Strangely enough, no one seems to notice that I'm lying, stretched out in an odd tangle of limbs, in that booth. Will that be how people will treat me if I die on the streets? Would they pointedly remain oblivious to my broken body? Would they step over me and go about their business as usual? It's funny, really, how everyone seems to hate me so much when they see me on my feet, but they don't even give a fuck if I'm sleeping right next to their table. I'm not sure which is worse.

I wake up the next morning with a stiff neck, feeling sorry for myself. It's been another one of those nights flooded with nightmares. Mother once told me that dreams can indeed come true. What she forgot to mention is that nightmares are dreams, too. And what if they do come true? What if your life becomes a nightmare? How do you wake up from a nightmare if you're not asleep?

I shake my head. The dreams have been so vivid that I'm unable to distinguish reality from them. For example, I actually think, for a moment, that Harry Potter walks in through the front door, even though that is clearly nothing but my fuzzy brain misinterpreting what my eyes see.

"Malfoy?"

I blink. This hallucination is just a little too real, because I swear that dream-Potter just called my name.

"Malfoy, you alright?" Dream-Potter starts walking towards me, looking down at me with something similar to concern colouring his otherwise pure green eyes. He's clad in slightly faded jeans that hug his legs tightly – I'm pretty sure that he owns about ten pairs of those things, and rightfully so, seeing as they look quite good on him – and an oversized dark navy blue hoodie, which has silver thread intertwining in the shape of a dragon over one side of it – it's done rather haphazardly, as if he bought it off the street, but it doesn't look unpleasant. The look seems to suit him, though, making him look more real. Too real for my liking.

Dream-Potter continues to watch me oddly. It takes a few moments for me to get it. _Oh. It's not a dream, is it?_

"Why wouldn't I be?" I snap, getting sluggishly off the hard bench, slightly put-off by my lack of common sense.

"Haven't you got a place to stay?" Potter asks, ignoring my rudeness.

"Of course I do, Potter," I scoff. "I just fell asleep, that's all."

"Mm." It's clear Potter doesn't believe me, but much to my relief, he doesn't pursue the subject. "You didn't show up at the site yesterday," he says.

Instantly, I feel my face flush red. "I had...more important things to do," I say, as haughtily as I can through sleep-lidded eyes and slightly slurred words. "My life doesn't revolve around that cause, you know."

It was meant to come out mean and hurtful, to make Potter go away, but it's quite clear that I've failed at getting my message across, because he smiles instead, which makes me feel a little funny. "But you're going today, aren't you?" he asks.

"I –"

"Great! We can go together." Without waiting for my confirmation, he grabs my arm and pulls me up. "I hope you don't mind a little Side-Along."

"I _do _mind, you –"

But my protests are cut off as he turns, bringing me into Apparition with him.

When we re-emerge, I jump away from him, yelling, "You idiot! You could have gotten me Splinched!"

Potter just laughs at me. "Wouldn't want to risk ruining your pretty face, would we?" he grins.

I can't find it in myself to fathom what he's just said. Is he...flirting with me? "Shut the fuck up."

"Language," he reprimands.

I turn away from him, but I realise doing so was a mistake when I see that everyone is staring at us, judgement clearly burning in their eyes, mixed with disgust and hatred. My heart sinks. Potter's presence and stupid actions have made me completely forget about all the people who loathe the very sight of me, and I've let my guard down, forgetting I'm being watched.

It's all his fault, really. It's always been.

"Ignore them," Potter says softly, almost soothingly, as if he's attempting to console me. I don't even know how he can tell that I'm bothered by those around me. Perhaps I'm a lot more like an open book than I'd like to be. "Come on then," he adds. "I'll walk you to the Astronomy tower."

I allow him to lead me away, but I can still feel everyone's glares burning holes into the back of my head.

When we arrive at my assigned spot, he says, "Sorry, I have to go. Duty calls." He gestures vaguely in the direction of half-built West Wing. "But look, if ever you need it..." He digs in his pocket and pulls out a card with Apparition coordinates and a scrawled name on it, handing it to me. I don't take it, but he doesn't lower it, instead saying, "It's my godfather's house. I converted it into a lodgings for those in need. Not saying that you are, just saying that if you ever happen to be...Apparate here and think about the address on the paper. You won't miss it."

Reluctantly, I reach out and take the piece of paper in his hand. I want to thank him for his consideration, but I don't know how, but at the same time, not expressing my gratitude would just seem rude and very inappropriate, especially from a Pureblood like me – not that blood status matters anymore.

He doesn't look disgusted at my lack of thankfulness, though. Instead, he turns and trudges off through the rubble. He doesn't look back, either, but that's alright, because I get the odd feeling that he knows that I'm grateful, even though I'm bad at showing it.

It's a dumb notion, really. Potter can't be like the person I'm envisioning – no one can; it's impossible. I must be so desperate that I'll imagine anyone who isn't outright mean to me as understanding.

I sink down on the stairs of the Astronomy tower, twirling my awful wand between my fingers, and I lift the card Potter handed me so I can read it. "The home of Harry Potter may be found at number twelve, Grimmauld Place, London," it says. How…formal.

I pocket the card. I've already embarrassed myself enough in the presence of the fucking Boy Who Wouldn't Die. There is no way I'm going to his lodgings.

* * *

I hate having to eat my words, but I've been doing a lot of that lately.

I haven't been able to find a job, nor a place to stay, and just this morning, I put my wand to my head and very nearly muttered _Adava Kedavra _– except I remembered that these wands have anti-Unforgiveable properties, and I wouldn't die if I used the Killing Curse on myself. I'd get locked up.

It isn't the first time I've contemplated and nearly followed through with suicide – it's happened tens of times. The first couple of times, I was too cowardly to end my life. The next few times, I started to worry about what was waiting for me on the other side, and couldn't bring myself to finish it all because I was afraid that it was just as bad in the next life. After that, it was just a matter of inconvenience – I'd get interrupted, or what I was trying to do wouldn't work, or, like today, I realized that I was using the wrong method.

I don't always feel like getting rid of all the pain – it only happens sometimes, when I'm feeling particularly low. One thing you have to know about me is that I'm not in a state of constant misery – my mood swings depending on what's going on. I'm never fully _happy_. I just go from a stoic state of neutral existence to sudden attacks of drowning sadness. No big deal, really.

I hate that feeling – the one of randomly feeling depressed. It doesn't come with a warning, or with any obvious reason other than a pile up of emotional baggage, and the worst part is that it simply _happens_. I'll go from reading an interesting book to feeling empty and worthless and oh, so tired, and I feel like I'd rather sit there forever and never move again, never have to even breathe.

The funny thing is, although no one will ever ask me if what's wrong when I'm in that state, I know that I wouldn't be able to answer them anyway if they did, because when I try to think of what the matter is, I simply can't, because I don't fucking know. All I know is that the harder I think of it, the more I discover how much is wrong, and the more I wish I wasn't alive. And then I'm trying something to relieve my pain again, and it never ceases to frustrate me how I can never get it right.

Now, though I'm over my brief suicidal streak, and am focusing on more practical turns I can take to get a roof over my head than going door to door and begging for a spare room. Naturally, I end up standing outside the one place I was determined not to show up in – Potter's fucking lodgings for the homeless.

At first, I'm convinced it's a mistake. It's quite obvious that his house doesn't exist – Number 11 lies on one side, followed immediately by Number 13. There's no Number 12.

Then I get it. It's a trick. Harry Potter took me for a fool – he doesn't respect me more than any of the others.

I glare at the card in my hand, annoyed at myself for my gullibility. I'm deciding whether or not to incinerate it – will the Ministry confiscate my wand if I perform an _Incendio_? – and turn the card over as I contemplate my next move. I realize, then, that there's more writing on that side in Potter's messy scribble.

"_Think about the address and come on in. I won't say I told you so. HP._"

Frowning, I picture the address in my head, and nearly fall backward in shock when a door materialises out of nowhere, emerging in between numbers eleven and thirteen, followed rather swiftly and immediately by walls of peeling paint and clear windows, pushing their way through the non-existent space between the two houses. In an instant, I realise my idiocy. His house is under a Fidellus charm. I've gone and acted, albeit briefly, like a heartbroken adolescent for no reason at all.

Focusing on the present, I walk up to the front door – there's no keyhole, no letterbox, nothing but a silver doorknocker that appears to be twisted into the shape of a serpent. How odd – a Gryffindor's house is marked by a Slytherin's emblem. Taking a deep breath, I grasp the knocker firmly in my pale fist, which is shaking slightly from something that might be nervousness. I knock once, twice, three times, and then I wait.

It takes forever, but finally, I hear a series of metallic clicks that resemble unlocking knobs and unhooking latches, and the door swings open, revealing a house elf with suspicious eyes which instantly brighten up when they fall on me. There's something familiar about him, but I can't quite recall if I saw him at Hogwarts or somewhere else.

"Mister Malfoy!" he gasps, sweeping into a half-bow. "Kreacher was not expecting Mister Malfoy, no, not at all –"

"Who is it, Kreacher?" a male voice questions, and the voice doesn't belong to Potter. The door opens fully then, and a young adult of small stature with rather prominent ears appears in the portal. His eyes nearly pop out of his head when he sees me, and I recognise him vaguely as a former Hogwarts student.

"What are _you_ doing here?" he quips, and I take an involuntary step back. "How'd you even get in?"

"I–" Once more, I'm at a loss for words.

"I suggest you leave now before I report you to the Ministry," he hisses.

The words sting more than they should. I nod quietly, preparing to turn away, when another voice sounds from the hall. It isn't Potter's voice, either, but it sounds more friendly, so I turn back to see who it belongs to.

"What's going on, Euan?" the boy asks, popping into view, and I instantly recognise him as Dennis Creevey – a member of Harry's extensive fan club, and one of the many victims of a broken home after his brother's death. His story was in the Prophet once, and it was quite a sad one.

"This idiot thought it'd be alright to show up here," Euan replies snidely.

Dennis glances at me semi-apologetically, although it's clear that he's not certain if he can trust me either. He clearly has no clue as to what to do in this situation, so he turns to Kreacher. "Kreacher, would you please go fetch Harry?"

Kreacher nods and disappears with a pop.

Potter appears not a moment later, walking, barefoot, towards me, smiling a little. He's wearing those stupid faded jeans again, but a flattering black shirt as well, with a criss-cross of broomsticks in gold thread running down the side – a look that I _do not_ find attractive. At all.

"Glad you showed up, Malfoy," he grins, stepping back and gesturing for me to enter.

"Harry –" Euan protests, eyeing me warily.

"We accept everyone here, remember?" Potter states matter-of-factly. "Come on in, Malfoy. Make yourself at home."

I almost forget to thank him, and do so hastily, but he waves away my gratitude, guiding me down the long halls. It's quite late at night, so the lights are off and the living room is empty save a board of Wizard's chess – perhaps what that Euan kid and Creevey were playing. Potter leads me up the stairs.

"Where are you taking me?" I whisper.

"To a room you can use," he replies.

"I'm not sure anyone would want to share a room with me," I say moodily. It's meant to sound ironic and sarcastic, but even as it leaves my lips, I can hear how desperate it sounds.

Potter pauses, turns to look at me, then resumes climbing the stairs. "There's one I left empty, catering specially to those who may be shunned. Your room is connected to another one which I recently put in, but the people there are not as…shall we say idiotic?...as the others in this house. In case you should need to know, the girls in the room are Mandy Brocklehurst, – you remember her, she was in our year – Laura Madley, Rose Zeller and Eleanor Branstone."

I run through the names in my head – all Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs. "Are there no Slytherins here?" I mumble, simply trying to be difficult so that Potter knows that I resent having to stay here and rely on him.

"Malcolm Baddock shares a room with Euan Abercrombie and Stewart Ackerly downstairs," he replies, not even remotely bothered by my antics. "It's difficult for most Slytherins to swallow their pride and admit that they need assistance. They seem to think there's something wrong with needing help – clearly they don't realize that all of us need a little help sometimes." He looks at me oddly when he says this, then holds the door to my room open for me to walk through. "Breakfast is served at seven o'clock because most of us go down to the site first thing in the morning, but Kreacher is always…err…happy to be of service." He pauses, then adds, "I really hope you'll help us with the rebuilding again soon, when you're ready." He doesn't mention that I haven't been there for three days, or that he's probably seen me sleeping on more benches this week than a cat probably does in a year. "Goodnight," he finally says, and the door swings shut behind him.

I kick off my shoes and lay on the bed, too tired to bother doing anything else first. It takes a while, but eventually, I fall into a gradual sleep.

Tonight, the dreams aren't as vivid. I know they're nightmares, but when I wake up, I can't remember what they are, so I guess that's okay.

Potter and majority of the house leaves for rebuilding at approximately eight o'clock the next day, but I can't be bothered to get out of bed until long after they've gone. I'm half afraid to take a step downstairs and see who's stayed behind – what if that Euan kid is still here?

Eventually, at around twelve o'clock, my stomach complains enough for me to drag myself out of bed. I note that the mattress is soft and rather comfortable – I haven't had the luxury in sleeping in one like it for a few months now – and that I should probably feel a lot more rested than I have in a while, but I don't. I feel even more exhausted.

I pull my door open, and it gives way with a creak. Tentatively, I take a step out of its safety. No one seems to be on this floor, and even the room connected to mine seems empty. Perhaps I'm alone in this house after all, which isn't such a bad thing.

But I've spoken too soon. As soon as I'm down the stairs and onto the next floor, I hear voices coming from below. They're laughing, chatting animatedly, but the words are difficult to make out from this distance. I decide to go forward anyway – I need to eat, and I don't think Kreacher would respond if I summoned him, because as much as he worships the ground I walk on, I'm not his master.

The conversation becomes clearer as I step onto the ground floor, and I can make out quite a few words. Luckily for me, they seem to be in the sitting room, and I don't have to pass them to get to the kitchen, but I'm curious as to what they're saying, and I listen as much as I can.

" – seriously thinks he has a right being here –"

"I just think Harry's lost it, to be honest –"

"I'm sure he has his reasons –"

The voices are jumbled up all over the place, and I can't tell what it is they're really talking about until someone, a girl, yells out:

"That's a load of rubbish! He simply can't differentiate people worth helping from those who deserve to rot. He thinks everyone's a fucking saint. Don't get me wrong, Harry has my upmost respect, but I simply won't stay here a moment longer unless that scum is removed from this vicinity immediately!"

There's a murmur of agreement, and the feel of my heart sinking. I'm not even wanted at a home for those who aren't wanted. My hunger forgotten, I turn away from the direction of the kitchen. I shouldn't have come here – it was a mistake.

I pass by the people talking about me on my way to the front door. A few of them glance up, but not many. I recognise Malcolm Baddock, the only other Slytherin in this house, among them, and he gives me a cold smirk when he spots me. Even my own don't respect me. There's no place left for me here – there isn't a place for me anywhere. I don't know why I keep forgetting that.

I ignore the looks they give me and walk right to the front door. It's filled with complicated locks and charms, and it takes me forever to figure out how to open them with nothing but my crappy wand, but in ten minutes, the door clicks open and I walk out into the street.

It's cold, I note, much colder than it should be, but perhaps the temperature's been brought down by the bitter disappointment growing within me.

On a similar note, I'm not sure when I became so melodramatic, but I have a feeling the war has something to do with it.

I glance around, fiddling with my wand, random Apparition coordinates running through my head. I have to go somewhere to recuperate, but there really is no place I can rely on, no place I can turn to or run to. The reality of the fact that I'm homeless has never really fully hit me. At least, not till now, and the truth comes crashing down pretty darn fast.

I start to walk down the street, aiming to walk around mindlessly until a plan forms in my mind, which shouldn't take too long – I pride myself on my above-average level of intelligence. Unfortunately, most of my otherwise brilliant plans don't work without actual proper magic. Or assistance.

I'm about to round the corner when I hear a succession of popping noises behind me, and I turn to see Potter appearing with the rest of his chums. It's a wonder that no Muggles ever notice the constant sounds of Apparition and the immense number of people that turn up and vanish on this street. Then again, Potter's probably done some fancy tricks to stop them from being noticed.

I watch from a distance as they enter Grimmauld Place one by one. They must have returned to have lunch before working again for a few more hours. A small part of me wishes I was part of them, but I'm not, and there's no use longing for something that will never happen.

I turn away – I've been told several times in the past that I'm not supposed to look back on things. If only I listened sometimes, but I've never been the type to learn much from my mistakes.

"Malfoy?"

I stop in my tracks at the sound of Potter's voice. How did he manage to notice me? I've always blended into the background – at least since the war – and I'm used to being able to watch others without them realising. Why does that have to change now?

I spin slowly to face him. "Potter," I say, as coldly as I can manage. It isn't too hard to sound icy, because I feel like that inside.

"Where are you going?" he asks, unaffected by my empty voice.

"You can't possibly expect me to stay in your grimy little room," I sneer. I don't know what drives me to be so uncivil to him, but it's something I've never been able to help. "I'm moving on, of course. Found a nice place to stay in that doesn't involve the constant presence of Hufflepuffs."

Potter cocks an eyebrow, but he doesn't seem angry. Instead, he seems oddly amused. "Oh? Really? Tell me, then, what's the name of this nice place you've come across?"

I stutter slightly. "It's...it's a friend's place," I snap, and the declaration comes out all defensive – too obvious. What happened to my practised deception? "Look, it's really none of your business where I stay. We're nothing to each other, and I don't see why you care."

Potter ignores my outburst, instead eyeing me thoughtfully. "A friend? Care to tell me whose? So I can check on you?"

"I don't need you to check on me," I hiss, trying to sound as furious as possible despite the fact that I know he has every right not to trust me. "I'm not into Dark Arts anymore, in case you haven't noticed."

"And you never were," Potter shoots back.

I open my mouth to argue when I realise that he's just taken my side, and I'm flabbergasted into silence.

He takes full advantage of my dumbfounded loss for words. "I meant, to check on you to make sure you're doing alright," he corrected himself. "So...name of that friend?"

"I don't want you invading my life," I say, but most of the venom is gone from my voice.

"Or you just don't actually have a place of residence," he adds.

I glare at him for a few moments before my resolve breaks down. "Fine," I sigh, because I know the persistence of Gryffindors. No matter what I do, I know I won't be able to shake him off. After all, I've never been successful in doing so before. "It's become apparent that I'm unwelcome here."

Potter's green eyes widen ever so slightly before he adopts a neutral expression again. "What do you mean?"

"I mean..." I trail off, unable to find a way that will adequately describe what's going on in that house without revealing too much of my own emotions.

But apparently, my uncertainty in answering his inquiry has already told him all he needs to know, because he glances at the house, an expression of intense disappointment blazing behind emerald eyes. "Wait here," he instructs, and then he's turning away and jogging up number twelve's front steps.

I follow him for two paces, then stand put. I watch Potter invade the crowd that's gathered by one of the windows and drinking lemonade, and I watch his audience fall silent as he starts to speak. A few people are replying, then a few more. I try to read their expressions, but it's a little difficult to do through the glass, although I can see Potter's well enough – probably because I've spent approximately seven years attempting to decipher his thoughts and examining his expressions for reactions to my taunts – and I can see that he's getting steadily angrier and angrier. Finally, in a seething shout that even I can hear through the windows, although I can't make out the words, his face morphs into a perfect picture of fury. I can almost imagine the agitation written in his eyes – a response I used to live for.

He yells at them for a near minute before he dismisses them with a silent word. He waits until they file out of the room and disappear from my view, then he, too, vanishes from my limited vantage point.

A few moments later, the front door opens and he comes out, face slightly flushed, and walks straight up to me. "Do you trust me?" he questions.

I'm taken aback by the abrupt phrase. "Excuse me?" I say.

"Do you trust me?" he repeats.

I take a deep breath. Do I? The answer is obvious the second I begin to think about it. Yes, I do – this man saved my life and stood up for me in front of an entire houseful of his own guests. But as I look at him, I make my expression stoic. "No," I reply.

He stares at me for a moment, and then...he smirks and holds out a hand. "Well, you're just going to have to."

Bewildered, I don't know what else there is to do but grab onto the offered wrist. "Why?" I ask, and my voice is barely a whisper.

"Because you're coming with me."

And then he spins on the spot, taking me with him.

* * *

I stumble slightly when we arrive at our destination. Once again, I think about what a miracle it is that I haven't been Splinched after being forced through Apparition without a warning. I would gripe about it, but I'm a little too confused for that now.

I glance around at the place he's taken me to, and my bewilderment mounts considerably. It appears to be a house – a fully Muggle one – and it's furnished with warm tones of cool grey – if that combination is even possible. "Where are we?" I ask, turning to face Potter, frowning.

"My home," he replies with a small smile. "It's the one I use when I want to get away from everything happening in the Wizarding World, or if I get sick of all the ignorance at Grimmauld Place."

My eyes dart across the room again, more slowly this time, and I find a few key decorations that give Potter away – there's his Gryffindor tie hanging from a hook next to the door, and what looks like a black Pygmy Puff in its cage in a corner, and his bookshelf is littered with old books that are definitely in no way Muggle. There's also a small table in the corner with red-and-gold tablecloth that looks like it's been stolen from his old common room when it was still standing, and on top of that rests an odd apparatus.

He notices me staring at it and smiles. "It's a sewing machine," he says.

"A what?" I repeat, looking at him blankly.

"It's a machine that sews," he explains with a dry chuckle.

"I gathered _that_," I snap. "I mean why do you have one?"

"It's a hobby."

"It's a _female_ hobby."

"Do I look like a girl to you?" he chuckles, then carefully arranges his features into mock-seriousness. "Don't answer that."

Despite myself, I smile a little. At least I haven't completely forgotten how.

I approach the…sewing machine curiously, glancing at it from different angles. All the strange but pleasant embroidery on Potter's outfits suddenly makes quite a lot of sense – he creates these patterns himself, with this Muggle apparatus. It confuses me, but seeing as someone like Potter's been able to get a hang of it, it must be fairly simple to use.

"Why am I here, Potter?" I finally ask.

"That's the million dollar question, isn't it?" he grins, and I raise an eyebrow, not even slightly fathoming what he's talking about. He shakes his head, looking slightly apologetic and more than a little sheepish. "Never mind. You're here because you still need a place to stay, and you'll be far more comfortable here than at Grimmauld Place."

It takes a few moments for the message to sink in. When it does, I take an involuntary step back. "Potter…no."

"Relax, it's no trouble," he says easily, grabbing my arm without waiting for my permission and leading me firmly but still gently down the hall. "It's a big apartment, and I don't use it quite so much anymore –"

"No, Potter, you don't understand," I say, not really trying to wrench my arm out of his grip, but not being completely compliant either. "I just…can't." _Because this is a Muggle place. Because I don't know my way around. Because I don't want to be here all alone again, it'll just be the same as before._

He stops, not releasing me, but turns to look at me carefully. I blink unsteadily, unnerved by his penetrating stare, but it's not like a Malfoy to back down from a confrontation – even when not sure exactly what that confrontation entails – so I steady myself and look him right in the eyes. They're flashing a little, the way they always used to when I attempted to piss him off before, and they seem to be searching for something. He scans my own eyes, and I wonder vaguely whether I'm revealing anything worth knowing – I usually don't, but he's seemed to decode quite a lot of what I'm thinking lately, so I can't be too careful. I notice that he's biting his lip just a little, catching it between his teeth in concentration, and I'm suddenly overwhelmed by the urge to lean down and taste it.

And then, before I can fully process my thoughts, he pulls away and gives me a half-smile. "It's alright. I'm going to be staying here for a while," he says.

"You're…what?" I blink. "What about all the people at the other house?"

"They'll be fine on their own," he replies, brushing away my question effortlessly. "Besides, I don't think it'd be very comfortable if I were to go back there now."

I feel ashamed all of a sudden. It's my fault that Potter has people mad at him now. I want to apologise but once again, I have no idea what to say.

"I don't blame you," Potter adds, as if he's read my mind. "Some people have yet to wake up from the war. It isn't anyone's fault." When I don't reply, he starts walking again. "Come on then, I'll show you to your room."

I follow him, less reluctantly this time. The hall isn't very long, and there appear to be only three doors in it.

"My room," Potter says, pointing at the one furthest away. "Room where I dump stuff," he explains, gesturing towards the door nearest to us. "And that's yours."

Mine? The way he says it is as if he's giving it to me, and for some reason, it makes me feel a tad warmer.

"Make yourself at home," Potter goes on. "I'm afraid I have to get back to the site, but I'll be back before the day ends. Everything in this house is yours to use." Without waiting for anything I might have to say, he whips out his wand and Disapparates.

I stare at the spot where he stood a mere second ago, silently cursing my brain's odd impulses to do things like...kiss Potter. I cannot believe how close I had come to doing just that. Perhaps I'm more delusional than I thought.

I shuffle into the room he's indicated. It's hardly as impressive as the ones at the Manor, but I have nothing to complain about. Besides, I find that I quite like Potter's house – it's homely and warm, quite unlike the opulent Manor, which always seemed so painfully cold despite all its luxury.

The bed's already been laid out, somehow – perhaps he always keeps his guest room ready – and it's overlaid in blue and green. I'm somewhat thankful for the lack of Gryffindor colours, because that would be rather intimidating.

Although I've just gotten up from bed, I suddenly feel exhausted. There's tension running in my veins and I'm quite sure that I'm going to burst from pent up emotion.

Thoughts of Potter are the last that I have before falling into a deep sleep.

* * *

By the time I open my eyes, it's considerably darker. I check the clock on the wall – six o'clock in the evening. I groan, trying to get to my feet, just as I hear a rather curious sound coming from another room. In an instant, I'm fully awake, and I stiffen when I realize that I'm in a very unfamiliar place.

It takes me a few moments to register where I am, and remember Potter…oh, fuck. What have I gotten myself into?

Now that my head is clearer, I register the sound I heard as I woke up as the sound of a key turning in a lock. Potter's returning from the rebuilding. For some odd reason, I feel that it would be only right to get out and great him at the door. It would seem rude not to.

I step out of the room and walk, half-groggy, down the hallway, just as the front door opens and Potter steps through it. He looks exhausted, as if the entire day's been against him – I know because I've seen that expression on my own face so many times before.

He sees me, and in an instant he rearranges his expression to smile at me, but I can still see the tiredness there, and it hurts a little to look at.

"Hey," he greets.

I suddenly realise how domestic this situation seems and wish I'd just stayed in bed. Maybe then this urge to sit him down and ask him what the matter is would go away. "Hey," I say uncertainly.

"I picked up some pizza," he smiles, lifting a white box to show me, and the situation couldn't possibly get anymore domestic than this. "You hungry?"

"No," I reply, just as my growling stomach cuts me off.

Potter chuckles. "Come on, there's more than enough," he grins, setting his purchase down on a wooden table covered in slate-grey cloth. "Help yourself."

Sighing, I cock my head in a dismissive gesture, and Potter hands me a paper plate. I raise an eyebrow. "Is this supposed to be economical?"

Potter grins sheepishly. "I'm a bachelor for a reason."

"Oh?" I glance around, and note that the house does seem to be pretty much a bachelor pad. "What about the Weaselette?"

Potter shrugs. "Things didn't work out. We went our separate ways." He clearly doesn't want to elaborate the subject as he opens up the box and gestures for me to take a slice.

"Don't you have any utensils?" I ask as he pulls a piece with his hands and immediately takes a bite.

He makes a questioning noise around his mouthful.

"Cutlery, Potter," I sigh.

He instantly stops chewing, and stares at me in a perfect expression of disbelief. "You mean you actually eat pizza with a knife and fork?" he gapes.

"Unlike you, I was raised with some semblance of proper table manners," I reply. The insult comes out before I can stop it, and I mentally curse myself for my stupidity. Potter's shown me nothing but kindness, and this is how I react? He probably thinks I'm not worth the trouble now, and will tell me to suck it up or leave, or just simply kick me out already. Salazar knows that's what I deserve.

To my surprise, however, he does neither. Instead, he laughs. "Come on, Malfoy. Live a little," he grins. "It's uncivil people like me who have the most fun."

Reluctantly, I take a slice of pizza from the box, hesitate, then take a bite. It's been a long time since I had food like this, I realise – I've been living on people's leftovers for far too long. It doesn't take long for me to wolf down the entire slice and reach for another.

"See? Not so bad, is it?" Potter teases, and I shoot him a glare. "You're still alive. The Pureblood Police didn't come after you."

I can't help but smile a little, although I disguise it as well as I can. "I'd gather not, seeing as blood status no longer has much of an impact."

Potter doesn't say anything for a moment. Then he asks, "Will you be coming back to the site anytime soon?"

I try not to show him how nervous I am at the proposition. I know he isn't pressuring me, and for some reason, I don't mind his asking, but even thinking about going back there frightens me. "No fucking way," I drawl.

"Why not?"

I stare at him in disbelief. Can he really be that naive, that ignorant? Maybe he doesn't actually give a rat's arse about me after all – he just wants me there to make the cause look good. "They hate me, Potter."

He shakes his head. "Where did you get that idea?"

I frown. "I'll write you a list when I have time."

Potter sets his plate down and watches me carefully. I try not to meet his eyes – they're inquisitive and demand answers for questions I don't even fully comprehend. Finally, he speaks. "They don't hate you, Malfoy. They're afraid."

I almost laugh at the absurdity of such a suggestion. "Afraid? Of what?" I say. "They can kill me at any time and no one would question them. In fact, they'd probably be given medals of honour." I stop myself from going on, afraid that I've revealed too much of myself to him. What if he discovers just how fragile I am and uses it against me? I draw myself back in, even though deep down, I know he wouldn't do that – at least, not intentionally. Irrationally, I still trust him.

"People are afraid of things they don't understand," Potter states seriously, looking up to catch my gaze.

For reasons I don't fathom, I allow myself to unravel further. Hoping he will understand the hidden meaning in my words, I meet his green eyes steadily and whisper, "Are you afraid of me?"

Something changes in those emerald eyes of his, something so foreign and powerful I find myself longing to shrink away from them. "No," he replies.

The expression in that gaze hurts me so badly that I rise from the table, mutter an apology hastily, and practically run to the room I've been given. I hear him stand up and start to follow me, but I close the door before he can say a word. I don't know why the idea of telling him what's on my mind scares me so much – isn't that what I've longed for, for the longest time? For someone to lend an ear to me, for someone to finally to _understand_?

But what if he doesn't? What if he laughs at me and throws me out, like everyone else? It's a risk I'm not willing to take.

* * *

Potter knocks on my door early the next morning. When I don't respond, he tells me that he'll be at the site if I need him, and that he's left breakfast out for me on the table, if I want some, and that he'll be back at around five. I don't speak, and I just pretend to be asleep, but for some reason, I have a feeling he knows I'm listening.

I finally get up from bed at around noon and walk out into the front room. As Potter said, there's a plate of sausages and eggs on the table, surrounded by a form of Warming Charm. I feel a sudden rush at his thoughtfulness, but force it down quickly. I've learned that such rushes are dangerous things.

I sit down and force myself to eat, despite the fact that I have little to no appetite. For some reason, I feel as if I owe that much to Potter for taking the trouble to cook for me, which I mentally berate myself for. I shouldn't owe Potter _anything_.

I groan in frustration. What the fuck is wrong with me?

You know what I am? A fucking contradiction – that's what. I have no self-respect or confidence, and I drag my feet everywhere I go, but I have a massive ego. I don't want anyone to see how weak I am inside, but I just want to fucking break down. I wish I didn't hurt so much anymore, but I'm the one who's hurting myself all the time, and I can't stop. I try so hard to change my life so I can live a better one, but I just want to end it all. I want Potter to see me so badly it hurts, but I'm too fucking terrified to let him. And, worst of all, I want to fall into a deep sleep, one without nightmares, and never wake up again, but I have this fucking irrepressible vision, this _fantasy_, that one night I'll wake up at three o'clock in the morning, trembling and shivering from another nightmare, and I'll look over and see _him_ lying over there, right next to me, and I won't feel so bad anymore.

But that's never going to happen, is it?

* * *

I'm sitting on the couch when Potter arrives that night. He looks surprised to see me outside of my room, but he grins warmly at me. It's a kind of warmth I don't think I deserve.

I take a closer look at him. He looks just about as exhausted as I feel, and his usually bright eyes seem to be dull with wear, but he's got a kind of smile playing on his lips. How does he find the strength to do that?

"You look tired," I comment offhandedly.

He shrugs, offering me another weak smile. "More people coming into Grimmauld Place. It's always hard settling new people in."

"I don't know why you bother," I drawl, almost lazily.

"I have a responsibility," he replies. "There are people within my care."

"Care for people, sure, but take care of yourself too," I say before I can stop myself. "Don't burn yourself out."

He glances at me, obviously taken aback by my sudden expression of concern. I want to take it back, but I know anything I say will make it a lot more obvious, and I curse inwardly.

"Thank you, Malfoy," he says at last, after several moments of silence. "I appreciate that." As if sensing my embarrassment somehow, he moves on. "Are you hungry?"

"No," I hear myself say, but it's only a matter of seconds before my stomach gives me away again.

Potter laughs quietly, but it's not an unkind laugh, nothing like the jeers I've received several times over the past months – it's warm, and it seems to draw me in dangerously close. "I haven't got any food here," he says apologetically. He hesitates for a moment, as though thinking something over, then asks, "Want to go out?"

"Me?" I ask automatically in my surprise. It's a dumb question – I'm the only other person in this house, after all, but I can't help but be taken aback at the prospect.

He chuckles. "No, the other blond git lounging on my couch as if he owns it," he replies. "Come on, now. I'm starved. I feel like fish and chips, don't you?"

"Your taste for cuisine leaves much to be desired," I reply, although I'm not really complaining. I get up from the sofa and walk over to him, but keep a safe distance away. He unlocks the front door. "Where are we going?" I ask.

"You'll see," he smiles.

I hold out my arm automatically for him to take. He stares at me quizzically. "You want to escort me out of here?" he questions.

"No," I snap. "Aren't you going to bring me somewhere by Side-Along-Apparition?"

"I don't think the Muggles would take kindly to us appearing out of nowhere," he replies.

In an instant, I feel myself tense. I've never ventured out into Muggle London, and I don't plan to do so anytime soon. As I mentioned before, I'm irrationally frightened of that unknown territory, and I've been far too afraid to go there alone. But I won't be alone, right? I'd be with Potter.

"What's wrong?" he asks me, gently reaching out and touching my shoulder. I flinch away involuntarily, and he immediately takes his hand away. I don't look at him, because I don't want to see what expression he has on – what if he looks disgusted by my lack of gratitude? Or even worse, hurt by my thoughtless actions?

"What's wrong?" he repeats, this time more quietly.

I refuse to look at him as I stammer, "I...I don't like going out there much."

There's a heavy silence, and after a few tense moments, I can't bear it anymore and chance a glance at his face. He doesn't look angry, instead rather pensive, as if he's thinking of something, and he's staring into the distance, somewhere I can't see. After a minute or so, he snaps out of it and looks at me, and the tenderness in his gaze makes me want to run and hide.

"I'll be there with you the whole time," he tells me. "If you really don't want to, you can stay here and I'll bring us back dinner. But if you could...trust me...I won't leave you alone for a second."

I'm staring at him in complete disbelief by now, unsure as to how he's figured out the exact thing to say to me to make me give in.

He reaches out to touch me again. I don't move away this time, and I catch a glimpse of handmade patterns of lightning bolts in gold thread running down the side of his sleeve. I nearly laugh at the narcissism, but it gets caught in my throat, along with a lot of other words.

"Come on," he says, a smile gracing his lips, his tone cheerful. "I'm starving already."

Just like that, the mood is lightened, and for some reason I cannot fathom, I allow him to take me downstairs and out into the congested streets of Muggle London. It's overwhelming at first, but the crowd of people walking by is no different from that which you'd see in Diagon Alley. They walk briskly, on their way to somewhere important, the only difference being the lack of magic floating in the air. There's another difference too, one which I can't quite pinpoint until we've walked a block down the pavement. No one is casting me dirty looks or shooting me hateful glances. In fact, a woman who bumped into me apologised in a civil tone, and a man just smiled at me politely as I passed him.

"It's not too bad, is it?" Potter asks knowingly.

I shake my head.

We stop at a roadside stall selling fish and chips in little paper packets. I'm slightly apprehensive at first, but it's still better food than what I've been getting, so I decide to allow Potter to buy me one. It's not as if he would've taken no for an answer, anyway. He hands me my order and takes me a little further along to a park.

"I love it here," he tells me. "It's peaceful, and everyone walking by is always really nice, and they don't recognise you, no matter how famous or infamous you are in your world." He seats himself on a bench and motions for me to do the same. I sit down a good distance away from him. He laughs at my awkwardness and grabs my arm, dragging me slightly closer. I feel my face flush from the contact and start lecturing myself in my head – it's friendly contact, not a bloody proposal. I shouldn't be acting like an adolescent Hufflepuff female.

"Go on, take a bite," he encourages me.

I sink my teeth into the fried fish. It's surprisingly good.

"What do you think?" he asks.

"Not bad," I allow.

He looks satisfied with himself as he starts on his own. I can't help but watch the way his teeth close around his meat and the way his tongue licks up the crumbs left behind on his lips. I tear my eyes away. It's not a good idea to stare; I might get carried away.

We finish up and I'm surprised to discover that I've enjoyed myself immensely, eating street food on a bench in the midst of Muggles. It's rather unconventional an idea for a Malfoy, but I could probably get used to this, going on...outings...with Potter. That's all they are, right? Outings? Not...I can't bring myself to think about the other word that could possibly be used for this.

Neither of us make to stand up, even after we've finished our food. For some reason, the silence we share is not uncomfortable, instead companionable, and I feel more at ease than I have in years.

Eventually, Potter does talk. He talks about a lot of things – first the more harmless topics, like a shop in the town he likes, a little trivia about the owner of a cafe he frequents, or a type of treacle tart he's particularly addicted to. At first, I just listen, because I find that I like to hear him speak, but he encourages me to join in, too, and we discuss the odd people I've met while serving different jobs, and things that are easy to talk about, like how much of an arsehole each of my employers was. But then, carefully, we broach other subjects: the Wizarding World's expectations, the people living at Grimmauld Place, how he copes with all the injustice.

"Are you happy?" I finally ask, because it's a question that's been on my mind, just resting at the tip of my tongue, for a while now.

He doesn't even pause before replying. "I think it's impossible for any of us to be completely happy at this point," he admits. "But I'm getting there." He doesn't ask me about myself, perhaps sensing that my answer would be negative and that it would be too difficult to talk about. "After all, I'm loved. By inarticulate people who cannot express it well, certainly, but loved nevertheless."

"Mine were..." I trail off, stop to correct myself, and start again in the present tense. "Mine are articulate, alright. Just busy."

"People do what they can," Potter says slowly. It amazes me how he manages to see the good in everyone, to make excuses for the worst of people – to make excuses for people like me. "I find that it helps to think of them as slightly better than they really are."

"You do it well," I inform him.

He chuckles at that, and the sound washes over me like a wave. "You've no idea the amount of practice I've had."

There's a moment of silence, then I ask, "Potter, is this your idea of a date?"

I nearly smack myself on the head. Why did I even ask that?

He turns to look at me, suddenly serious. "Do you want it to be?"

I shake my head no. It's a blatant lie, and I'm pretty sure we both know it.

It's dark by the time Potter asks me if I'd like to go home. _Home_, he says, as if it's mine. I'm not fooled – I know it isn't, but I let him make me think that it is. I get up and follow him without a word. For some reason, the silence this time is filled with a kind of tension that wasn't there before we left the apartment. I can't place a name on it.

When we arrive, I excuse myself quickly, before the tension overwhelms me. Before I can reach the safety of the room labelled as mine, Potter calls out.

"Goodnight, Malfoy."

I nod stiffly, for some reason unable to respond. When I don't, he starts to walk towards me. My feet root themselves to the ground. I know I should turn and run and lock the door, but I can't move an inch. He nears me, invading my personal space, and I keep my face carefully blank. When he can't read my expression, he lets out an exasperated sigh.

I feel my shoulders relax. He can't decode my thoughts now, and that makes me feel slightly more confident. "Goodnight, Potter," I say with finality, and I enter my room and close the door in his face. I don't hear his footsteps leave at all, but he could have silently stalked away without my noticing, so I don't pay him that much attention.

I lay on my bed, still fully clothed, a mixture of emotions beginning to crowd my system. This night started out well, and I think I'll learn to like Muggle London – there's less judgement and no one cares about the mark on my left forearm – but my feelings begin to conflict as I muddle over the strange mix of sensations that washed over me as our little outing came to a close. I've just about given up figuring them out, opting instead to sleep on it, when my door is shoved open unceremoniously. I glance up sharply. Potter is standing in the doorway, a determined look on his face. Before I can ask him what he's doing, he has crossed the room and clambered onto the bed, his legs on either side of me, straddling me.

"What are you doing?" I demand, trying to shove him off. He holds me down my the shoulders, trying to stare into my eyes, as if he's trying to unlock the mysteries of my very soul. I don't think he'll have much luck, as I myself haven't been able to unearth them yet.

"Why won't you let me in?" he asks quietly, his green gaze searching my grey one. "Won't you let me care for you?"

My breath catches in my throat. Potter...Harry Potter...the Saviour of the Wizarding World...wants to care for me.

_No, he doesn't, _I remind myself. _It's all words. Words don't count for anything._

"You can't," I reply harshly.

He doesn't recoil in the slightest. "Let me try," he whispers, leaning down to rest his forehead against my own, his voice almost begging.

I can't think of a response to that, and all of a sudden he's far too close, and it's all too much, and I can barely breathe with him right there, but I don't even think to push him off or stop him, because undeniably, I want this more than anything else I've ever wanted in my entire life.

Then his lips press against mine, and my mind draws a blank as my heart – as cliché as it is – skips a beat. As abruptly as it stops, my heart starts up again at twice its normal speed, just as Potter pulls away. It was a sweet, chaste kiss, meant to test the water, and his eyes roam over my face, searching for an expression that tells him he's doing the right thing. I scan his face as well, and I realise that he's nervous as hell and that his hands are shaking just a little. He's just as scared as I am. A rush of heat jolts through my body at the realisation and I reach up to tangle my fingers in his hair, bringing him back down. Our lips crush together once more in a bruising, desperate kiss, and something frantic is blooming in my chest, and my stomach is twisting in a way I've never felt before. This time, he only pulls away to suck my lower lip into his mouth. I hold back a moan as he dives back into the kiss again. A soft, warm tongue licks delicately at the seam of my lips. I let him in immediately and without question, and I can't feel anything and I can't _breathe, _but I don't even try to fight it. A panicky sensation is settling in my lungs, almost suffocating. All of a sudden, we have far too many clothes on, and my arms reach up to tug at his shirt.

"Slow down, Draco," he murmurs into my lips, gently reaching out and taking each of my hands in his. Another spark rushes through me when he says my first name, and I do moan this time, once more attempting to attack his top. "Shh, not yet," he tells me. "There's time. I'm right here, Draco. I'm not going anywhere."

I comply at last, because once more, he's somehow managed to read my thoughts and say exactly the right thing. He takes his time, kissing me slowly but with a passion that burns and threatens to consume my entire being. I respond as well as I know how. He runs his tongue along the roof of my mouth, then gently sucks on my tongue, and an embarrassing whimper escapes my lips. I try to hold back the noises, scared that if I make too much of them, I'll scare him off, but he doesn't seem to care about that as he repeats his actions to elicit a weak sound from the back of my throat. My eyes slide shut, but only for a second as a moment later, my lips are abandoned. I open my mouth to protest, but my head falls back onto the pillow as he begins an assault on my neck. He immediately maps out the most sensitive areas on it and selects the spot right above my collarbone, dragging his teeth along it and leaving a mark which he soothes over with his tongue. I'm moaning by now, and I realise how horrifyingly whorish I must sound. Embarrassed, I purse my lips together, but he leans up and gently kisses me again until I melt into his arms and no longer give a fuck what kind of noises I'm making.

"Harry," I moan softly, the name fitting perfectly on my tongue, and it feels so right that I wonder why I haven't used it before. "Harry, please..."

And then finally, _finally_, he begins to undo the buttons on my shirt, pausing to allow me to pull his over his head. My hands are instantly running down his chest, memorising the texture of his skin. He's beautiful, I realise, and I feel like nothing compared to him, but he's staring down at me like he's just won a Quidditch Cup. I try not to squirm under his glance, and he probably sees the flicker of insecurity in my eyes, because he leans down to capture my lips again. He then proceeds to press open mouthed kisses down my chest, lavishing attention on my nipples until I can't see straight anymore and have to close my eyes to prevent everything from spinning. From licking and sucking, he suddenly bites down and a startled gasp escapes my lips, and I arch my back eagerly into his mouth, desperate to have more of that feeling. He teases me just a little longer, pleasuring each sensitive nub until I'm certain they're red from abuse, before moving on from them and licking a line down a tender spot in my chest. I realise that he's running his tongue down the _Sectumsempra _scar he left me from sixth year and I tense slightly and shudder, a fight-or-flight reaction irrationally starting to surface. Gently, Harry reaches up and smoothes a hand tenderly through my hair to soothe me. Once he's satisfied, he slides down and begins to press open mouthed kisses down my stomach. My breath catches in my throat.

He chuckles. "Breathe," he instructs me, and I obey, drawing much-needed oxygen into my lungs and holding it there for a few moments until I remember how to exhale. He waits for my breathing to regulate before unbuttoning my trousers and sliding them down over my legs, kissing down every inch of skin that comes into exposure. It's almost as if he's worshiping my body, and the thought suddenly makes me feel rather self-conscious. He tugs at the waistband of my boxers, and in a moment of panic, I pull him back up to kiss him, to distract him, because as aroused as I am, the idea of letting Harry see me completely unnerves me.

"We don't have to do anything you don't want to," he says, as if he's somehow managed to read my mind again. He leans down to kiss me once more, sweeter and softer this time, to reassure me. Just like before, he's said the right thing and I feel myself relax. A voice at the back of my mind tells me that I probably shouldn't give in so easily, because this could all be a lie, but it seems dull against the rush of adrenaline and _want_ running through me. Harry's watching me silently, waiting for either permission to continue or a sign to stop here. I don't give him an answer in words, instead reaching down to undo the button and zipper on his jeans. I don't miss the softening of his gaze as he helps me remove them. He flips us over, allowing me to be in control, allowing me to set the pace. A sudden wave of courage overwhelms me and I make quick work of his boxers, tossing them to the side, and then Harry is spread out before me in all his naked glory, and I find myself wondering how anyone could possibly be so beautiful. My eyes trail over every inch of him, from his eyes – it's not truly enough to label them green, although in essentiality, that's what they are; the greenest, most beautiful eyes I've ever seen, and I feel the need to find a name for that shade, not emerald, not jade, not forest...just distinctly _Harry _– to the toned muscles in his arms, chest and stomach, down to his swollen erection. I look up to catch his eye and see that he's blushing. How can he feel self-conscious when he looks like _this_?

I bend down and wrap a hand around his cock, and it jumps in my grip. _I did this to him_, I realise. A feel a little braver now and begin to fist him, listening to the quiet moans that fall from his lips. I drink each one of those sounds in as if I long to drown in them, and truth be told, I do. I lean forward, wanting to hear more of those delicious noises, and take his cock into my mouth. His reaction is instantaneous – he cries out, bucking his hips, and I have to hold him down to stop myself from gagging, but it's quite alright, really, because his writhing is only serving to turn me on even further. I take my own cock in hand and pump it in a steady rhythm as I hollow out my cheeks and bob my head up and down, taking as much of Harry as I can. He's staring down at me, watching me, and his heated gaze nearly bores a hole in my skull. I pull back to suck the tip of his cock, then drag my teeth along it, and his self-control shatters as he grabs me and reverses our positions, rolling on top of me, his lips instantly attacking mine, his tongue exploring my mouth and running over my teeth until he draws another whimper from my throat.

I long to say something, anything, but phrases and confessions and words are tumbling over each other in my mind, all struggling to get out at the same time. In desperation, I say the first one that comes to the surface of my mind. "I want you," I whisper into his mouth. "I need you."

For a second, I'm afraid I might have scared him off, especially with the second half of my confession, but when he pulls back, he looks at me with warmth. "You have me," he says.

I shake my head, then choke out, "In me."

His eyes widen and he stares at me. I count five seconds before he presses his lips against mine. Our teeth clash and tongues tangle, but I don't give a fuck about how messy this is because he wants me, he wants me just as badly. Lust clouds my vision and my nails scrape down his back, causing him to cry out and grip me tighter, deepening the kiss. He pulls back, leaving my lips almost painfully sore, and mutters a spell of some sort. A liquid appears in the palm of his right hand, and I realise that he's somehow manages to Conjure lube out of nowhere. He watches my reaction carefully as he slicks a finger and presses it to my entrance. I moan quietly, rocking backwards involuntarily against him, and he smiles almost adoringly at my impatience. I've lost count of the number of times Harry's tenderness has frightened me.

Bending down to press a kiss to my forehead, he pushes his finger in and I groan – it's been quite a while since this has happened. Sensing my discomfort, Harry slinks downwards and distracts me by licking a line up my cock, and I can't help but moan and shudder at the feelings of pain and pleasure mixing into one. He slides another finger in and scissors them. I wince at the dull ache but it feels so fucking _right. _"More," I mewl, trying to draw his fingers even deeper into me. He starts to add another finger but I shake my head. "Need you...please..."

Harry's eyes are wide again. "I –" he starts to say, probably to tell me that I'm not prepared enough, that it'll hurt, but I don't care.

"Please," I beg. "Please, Harry, now..."

He moans aloud then and wastes no time in slicking his cock, pressing the head against my entrance. I bite down on his shoulder as he pushes into me. It hurts, but the feeling of being filled is incredible, and the pain numbs away all other emotions, leaving only desire pulsing within me. Harry, somehow attentive even now, notices the pain I'm in and stops moving. I whine in protest, wrapping my legs around his waist to pull him in deeper. He lets out a moan and his eyes flutter shut, his mouth falling open in a silent "o" of pleasure, and the sight is so exquisite that I almost forget how to breathe again.

"Fuck," he hisses, but I barely hear him, because he's pushing into me until he's buried to the hilt and there's a painful throbbing somewhere in my body but I don't care because this is absolutely exquisitely perfect and _oh Salazar_ –

Harry slowly begins to move, thrusting into me, and moans spill from my lips and he keeps on whispering my name, _Draco, Draco, Draco_, and it's all it takes for me not to come the second my name exits his lips. He crushes his lips against mine in a soul searing kiss, and then he angles himself a certain way and brushes something within me and pleasure erupts from every single pore in my body and I'm writhing and mewling beneath him, each sound swallowed up and muffled by his mouth on mine. I try to reign it in, not wanting to fall apart completely, but everything he's doing to me is temporarily disabling my ability to think, or even remember my name. My hands fist the sheets, searching for purchase, and he gently prises one of them free and laces his finger through mine, as though telling me that it's okay to lose myself, because he isn't going to let me go. His thrusts become erratic and his voice is breathless as he whispers sweet nothings in my ear. I feel a heat pool in my stomach. Neither of us are going to last long, but it doesn't have to, because I can't see hear feel anything else and everything is just _Harry_ and it's fucking perfect.

I fall over the edge, clutching onto Harry for dear life as I arch against him, crying out his name, bringing him with me as he, too, moans one last time before I clench around him and he comes inside me. I rock back against him until he's spent. He collapses on top of me for a few seconds, crushing the breath out of me, and I find that I don't mind in slightest. At last, he rolls off, his spent cock slipping out of me, and I feel suddenly empty without his warmth surrounding me. I shiver and Harry pulls me towards him, stroking my hair tenderly. I nestle my head on his chest and he kisses my forehead, his heartbeat slowing until it lulls me to sleep. The last thing I hear before drifting off is his quiet whisper, "Mine."

* * *

Sometime during the night, I wake up, drawing in a breath of air with a gasp. It had been one of those nightmares, the ones where I watch helplessly while someone I know is tortured. Today, it was Mother, even though she'd never been hurt in front of me before. Thankfully, I haven't made any noise, but the memory of each scream and jet of light and maniacal echo of laughter has done enough damage to my brain.

I turn to my side and see Harry lying beside me. The curtains are open and the moonlight is casting shadows on his tanned skin – he looks just as beautiful as he did before, and I want to reach out and touch him.

Sometimes you don't even realize you're falling for someone until it's too late to stop yourself. That's probably what happened to me. I could have brushed it off, scoffed something about it being "just sex", but it's too late for that now. I'm in too deep.

He stirs slightly, then his eyes open and he turns to look at me immediately, as if sensing that something's amiss. He takes one look at me and reaches out almost instinctively. I inch my way into his arms, seeking comfort from them. I don't know how he can tell I've had a nightmare, or how he even knew I had woken up, but I'll save the questions for later.

I can't really drift back off to sleep right away, but feeling the warmth of his body against mine is more than enough, for some odd reason.

It feels like I've closed my eyes for only a second when Harry shakes me gently awake. I squint as the sunlight streams into the room, hurting my eyes a little. I glance at the clock on the shelf – it's about seven o'clock. My first thought is one of panic – have I done something wrong? Does he regret last night? Does he want me to leave? But he instantly soothes all fears by pressing a chaste kiss to my lips.

"Good morning," he grins.

"What is it?" I ask quietly.

"I have to get to the site," he tells me, kissing my forehead. "Do you want to come?"

I shake my head.

"Okay," he says with a smile. "I'll be back at the same time tonight. There's Muggle money in the bedside table if you want to go out." He leaves the bed, and I feel rather cold without him. I don't like how easily I'm becoming attached to him, and open my mouth, trying to think of something to say, but he's in the bathroom before I can. When he emerges fifteen minutes later, he's fully showered and dressed, and his hair is still damp. I feel an urge to run my hands through it. I resist.

He turns to me, still lying on the bed, and says, "Has anyone ever told you that you're really, really beautiful?"

My breath catches in my throat. Unable to speak, I settle for shaking my head. It's a word I didn't think applied to me. Him, maybe. But never me.

"Well, you are," he smiles. "I'll see you later, Draco." He swoops down and kisses me again before he's out the door and gone. I think I lay there, staring after him, for at least ten minutes before my brain begins to function again.

_What have I gotten myself into?_

* * *

For a week now, Harry and I have been...involved, or whatever this is. Every morning, he leaves to go to the site of Hogwarts, and I'm left to my own devices for the rest of the day. As each day passes, doubt settles more and more firmly in my mind.

It isn't that Harry has been anything short of perfect, because he hasn't. He possesses this uncanny ability to read my mind, and every single time he senses me faltering, he's always there to straighten it out. But what really scares me is that I _need _him. It's only been a week and I need him with every fibre of my being. That isn't normal, is it? That's not even right. I shouldn't be allowing myself to become so attached to someone like this. Must I always learn the hard way?

But at the same time, I'm completely powerless to stop it. It's as if I'm falling deeper and deeper into him and there really is no way out of it.

I hear the click of the lock in the front door as a key is fitted into it. The door swings open and Harry walks in. He doesn't look so tired anymore, I notice. I hope it's because of me, that I'm helping him just as much as he's helping me, but deep down a part of me knows that isn't the case at all. He's always been stronger, even at Hogwarts.

"Tough day at the site?" I ask, coming up to meet him. Once more, I'm struck by the domesticity of the situation, and that pang of fright rushes through me again. I cover it up with a smile.

"A little," Harry replies. He grabs me by the collar and pulls me towards him, pressing a sweet kiss to my lips. My knees nearly give out below me.

"Missed me, huh?" I smirk cockily. I wish I was as confident as I sounded, but really, I worry that he doesn't miss me at all, and that I'm just becoming a burden to him.

Again, he reads my mind. "More than you know," he replies, leaning down connect our lips once more.

All of a sudden, there's a loud popping noise. Harry and I jerk apart, both drawing our wands instantly, and spin towards the source of the sound. To my horror, Granger, Weasley and Longbottom are all standing in Harry's living room, their jaws slack from shock at catching us during an intimate moment. Harry goes red.

"Don't any of you know how to use a door?" he groans.

"What is _he _doing here?" Weasley yells, ignoring Harry's question, and pointing straight at me. Harry hesitates and stutters, giving Longbottom time to speak.

"We're sorry, Harry, we didn't know anyone else was here," he says, and he even goes so far as to give me an apologetic look. "We thought we'd surprise you and we'd go out for dinner, just like old times. We had no idea you had company. If you'd like us to leave –"

"Hang on a moment!" Granger cuts in, glaring at me as if I'm a reincarnation of the Dark Lord himself. "Harry, you told us there was no more room for new residents at Grimmauld Place, which is why you moved here. Alone. You never mentioned you were housing this...this..." There she goes again, gesturing at me and referring to me as if I'm a species of wild Magical Creature.

I glance at Harry, and he looks absolutely baffled. My heart sinks when I realise that he's covered up the fact that he's helping me, and made all kinds of excuses, just so that no would know. He didn't even tell them that I was staying with him, even as a friend or simply out of the goodness of his heart. Is he ashamed of me? Is that why he hid me, even from the beginning, from before our relationship went beyond one of mild acquaintance?

"Harry, _why is he here_?" Weasley repeats.

"Draco, if you'd excuse us," Harry says, offering me a polite smile. I feel a part of me shatter at the sight of it – it's nothing but a formality. He pulls his three friends out of the room, and I hear the door to his bedroom being slammed shut.

I briefly consider making a run for it, but that'll only make me look guilty. A Malfoy still has to have a certain amount of pride. But I can't stand still for very long, and soon I find myself stalking over to the hallway and standing outside the door of Harry's room. I can hear every word through the thin walls, and it's even easier because Harry's shouting.

"And why the fuck does it matter?" he roars. "It's _my _house, I can put whoever the fuck I want in it!"

"We wouldn't mind if you were just housing him, Harry," Granger says, as if she has to a right to speak for them collectively. "But we saw what...what you were doing..."

"And what's wrong with that?" Harry snaps. "You already know I swing both ways. Why should it matter who I'm with?"

"Have you gone bloody mental?" Weasley is yelling, his voice louder than all of theirs combined. "You can't be serious – that's a fucking piece of –"

"Ron, calm down," Longbottom interrupts. There's a brief pause, then he asks, "Are you sure you've thought this through, mate?"

Harry's reply is instantaneous. "Yes. I've never been more sure of anything in my entire life."

My heart starts to beat again. I wasn't aware that I had died for a moment.

"But...it's Malfoy," Weasley splutters, and I can almost imagine the dumbfounded look on his face. "You can't possibly consider –"

"The war's over, Ron!" Harry shouts. "It's in the past. We don't live there anymore."

"We don't care about the war, Harry," Granger soothes, and what a load of crap that is. "We care about _you_. There are so many other decent people out there, and we honestly thought you had a good thing with Ginny. You said you wanted someone who made an effort, and she did, she really did. She wanted to know everything about you, so that she could be with you. You remember, she'd always ask you questions, wanting to know all the little details about you –"

Harry cuts her off before she can finish her speech. "Draco knows lots of little things about me, too. And not because he asks. Because he pays attention."

"Harry..." That's the joined voice of both Weasley and Granger, both begging him now. Am I really so repulsive that they can't bear the idea of him being with me?

"No, just listen to me for a second. Hear me out, alright?" Harry says, his tone lowering, his voice becoming softer. When he speaks again, it's with that tenderness that can shoot shivers down my spine and also have me quivering in fear of how vulnerable it renders me. "I want someone who will bring out the best in me, not someone I have to bring out the best in me for, and for the first time, I've found someone who I can't stand to leave, even though I know I should. He accepts me for who I am, he doesn't like me for what I'm not, and he never expects me to change. He can make hell feel like home, and for once in my life, I feel like I'm finally allowed to fall for someone." He pauses to take a breath, and my heart suddenly feels so full that I can't remember how to breathe. That happens a lot around Harry, I realise.

I nearly jump when Longbottom speaks. "Are you happy, Harry?" he asks.

"Yes," Harry replies.

"Then that's all that should matter," Longbottom says with a firm tone I didn't know he was capable of.

"Now hang on a minute –" begins Weasley.

"It's only been a little over a week since he's moved in!" Granger finishes his sentence.

"And I already know I want to be with him, and it's the clearest thing I've ever encountered in my entire life," Harry responds. "And if that isn't proof, then I don't know what is." He pauses, then starts again, sounding angry. "So don't just stand there and act as if you aren't blinded by the effects of the war, because if you gave even one flying fuck about me, you would accept the fact that I've finally found someone who makes me happy."

I can't take it anymore – I'm afraid that if I listen to one more word, I'll do something rash and stupid like rush into the room and kiss him in front of all his prejudiced friends. Instead, I do the opposite. Forgetting about how guilty it'd make me look, I rush out the front door, down the stairs and out onto the streets of Muggle London.

The crowd is rather overwhelming today, but that's alright, because I can blend into it a little better. It's incredible how I've gone from being downright terrified of the people here to seeking comfort in the rush of non-magical strangers brushing past me on their way home from work. In just one week, I've managed to overcome one of the most consuming fears of my entire life. Compared to the nothing I've done for the past few months, this is certainly a step forward.

I think about all the things Harry said about me. He didn't say anything against me – in fact, he supported me and admitted to feeling just as deeply about me as I do about him. Then why am I running? Why am I here, when I know he wants me, too?

For the first time in my entire life, I stop to think about what I'm doing. Why am I walking away from one of the only things that's ever made me feel happy? When did I start being able to look people in the eye, and walk down a street alone without giving a fuck about what other people think of me?

It's Harry, I realise. He's patched me up. He's made me better. But it isn't just him – it's me, too. I let him help me, I swallowed my pride and I allowed him to take the lead. I've been trying so hard to please others, to make them happy so they'd accept me. Isn't it time I let myself be happy, too?

It's my turn to do something for myself. It's about time I took a leaf out of a Gryffindor's book and gathered the courage that's always been within me somewhere, just waiting patiently for its time to come, along with all the little broken fragments of myself.

I think...I think it's time I sewed the pieces back together.

* * *

When I Apparate to the site of Hogwarts the next morning, I'm greeted by the same hostile stares I received the first time. I meet each one as politely as I can – they have every right to distrust me after what I've done, but they have no right to hold it against me forever. I even nod courteously to a particularly contemptuous Euan Abercrombie, and he looks startled for a moment before he dips his head back. I watch the angry looks turn to ones of surprise as I smile at each one as confidently as I can – it's tiring, this bravery thing, but I think I can make it.

Professor McGonagall is standing in her usual spot, speaking to Granger and Weasley about something. I hesitate for only a moment before striding up to them.

"Hello, Professor, Granger, Weasley," I say. There's a slight tremor in my voice, but I don't think I really care if they hear it or not. "I apologise for my long leave of absence. Is there anything you need me for?"

McGonagall smiles, giving me a proud look. "There are windows to be done in the West Wing," she replies. "It's good to have you back."

"Thank you," I respond. Before I can say anything else, Granger speaks, surprising me.

"I don't think you need to start work until eight," she says. I stare at her, trying to figure out what she means. She doesn't look angry or upset by my presence, instead appearing as if she's making an effort at something.

"Why's that?" I inquire.

She pauses, as though thinking something over, then says, "Harry will be coming in at that time. He's been assigned the Astronomy Tower, fitting in the new telescope that just got sent in yesterday. I won't look for you in the West Wing until after that."

I'm definitely surprised by what she's saying. I feel a grin spread itself across my face before I can stop myself. "Thank you," I say.

Weasley clears his throat. "Look, Malfoy," he begins, sounding as if he's forcing the words out of his mouth, "This is going to take a while for me to get used to, but since you clearly make Harry happy, I'm going to learnt to be civil to you. But just so you know, if you ever so much as hurt Harry, I will not hesitate to eviscerate you."

I smirk, and for once, the expression feels like it fits on my face again. "Duly noted, but that will not be necessary," I reply. He nods at me one last time before trudging off.

I make my way to the Astronomy Tower. My heart is pounding in my chest, and I'm so nervous I can barely walk in a straight line. What if he's still angry at me for leaving? What if he's come to his senses? I can't help but laugh a little as I try to shake those thoughts away. Where would the fun in life be without the adventure, and where would the adventure be if we didn't know all the answers?

Longbottom's working inside the tower, slowly Levitating a large telescope up the steps. He turns when he hears me and smiles widely, setting the apparatus down on one of the stairs and balancing it out perfectly. "Hey, Malfoy," he greets. "I suppose you're waiting for Harry."

"Good morning, Longbottom," I reply, grateful that his smile is genuine. I needed that – my nervousness dies down a little. "Yes, I am."

"I'm just about finished here. I'll leave you to it." He stows his wand back into his pocket. "Don't worry about it, mate – he's head over heels."

I chuckle and thank him as he leaves. Never in a million years did I imagine myself befriending Longbottom, but I suppose stranger things have happened.

I sit down on one of the steps, waiting. As each minute passes, I feel my anxiety and excitement mount. It's the first time in months I've felt this good about the unknown.

Finally, I hear footsteps, and Harry walks into the tower. He's wearing a black jacket with more embroidery on the sleeves – red lions, this time, like a true Gryffindor – and those faded jeans, and his hair is as messy as ever, and his eyes are just as green as I remember them behind his spectacles, and I wonder how it's legal for anyone to look that mind-numbingly beautiful. When he sees me, his eyes widen in surprise, and then he smiles so earnestly that it temporarily dazzles me. I struggle to find words to say, and I notice a shadow cross his eyes even as he grins – he isn't sure what's going to happen. To be honest, neither am I.

"I wasn't waiting for you," I lie, standing up.

I've made myself so transparent that Harry relaxes in an instant. "I know," he replies. And then I cross the room and capture his lips with mine. One of my hands reaches up to cup his cheek, the other sliding around his waist. He tangles his fingers in my hair, and I feel his desperation – my leaving had hurt him a lot more than expected.

I pull away, knowing he needs more reassurance than a simple kiss. "Go out with me tonight?" I ask.

"Me?" he gapes, and I have to laugh at the way out situations have been reversed.

"No, the other daft prick in the stupid glasses with the scar on his forehead," I drawl. "I've heard there's a rather fantastic diner in Diagon Alley."

"Are you sure?" he questions, brow furrowing. "Everyone will see us and recognise us. It'll be splashed all over the papers by the morning. They're going to think you've put a spell on me."

I smirk. "You have."

He laughs at my cheesiness – maybe I'm more like an adolescent Hufflepuff female than I thought – but a blush begins to spread across his cheeks, and he pulls me back to kiss me again.

I'm not really good at expressing myself. Many times, I want to tell someone what I'm feeling, or how I am, but I don't really know how to describe it. So I just stay quiet, and speak to him in a million silent ways.

And he always understands.

_The End_

* * *

No matter how broken you are, someday, you will find someone to help you sew yourself back together again.


End file.
